Dark Endearment
by Hlbur14
Summary: An insight to the mind of Molly and Sherlock in THAT scene. You know exactly what I mean, and damn my love for this show if I wasn't going to write this! SPOILERS FOR THE EMPTY HEARSE.
1. Dark Angel

**I am so sorry but this just had to be done, it's not even in question as far as I'm concerned. This, even though the whole freaking scene never even happened, is from Molly's point of view of one of the most sexiest kisses I have ever witnessed on TV.**

**Enjoy!**

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Molly Hooper's heart was in her throat.

Never had she felt such dread upon watching Sherlock Holmes falling, despite the harness presumably safely latched onto the back of his grand coat. She felt the fear like a horrid knot in her chest and gut, twisting painfully, black ink poisoning all the hope she longed to possess. Anything could go wrong. She envisioned the cord that held his life in check snapping, followed by the sudden thrash of panic as he fell, the ground climbing at impossible speeds to meet him, his whole world crashing around him as well as her own.

She closed her eyes, and opened them a mere second later.

Before she could let the panic envelope her, Molly watched at the cord tremor, signifying the weight that was Sherlock. Then it loosened, twisting and bending, and suddenly everything slowed down. Molly listened to the racing of her heart, the simmering of her blood, the catching of her breath. In the motion of slowed reality, she watched as Sherlock rose again, his body flailing hectically as he angled himself towards the window she watched from. She gasped and felt the strain of her body, fighting with the option of reaching for him or not (not that it was possible), her lungs holding onto a shriek of surprise as his body came swinging in her direction. The next thing she knew she had her arms flying to shield her face, recoiling away from the window.

The sound of shattering glass surrounded her in a single, beautiful symphony, shards of glass hitting her clothes and sprinkling in her hair. In the time it took Molly to shake the shards free, she heard the confident landing of _his _feet, as clean and perfect as the landing of a cat. She stared in disbelief, eyes wide, her heart thick in her throat. She searched for the right thing to say, but no matter what she thought, she knew full well that her voice would avoid her entirely.

_Oh my God, are you okay? _

_Are you hurt?_

_My God, let me help!_

But she did nothing. Molly watched him like a witness witnessing something amazing but impossible. She stared at the brilliance of the man before her, all dark attire, all confidence and agility. Effortlessly, his capable hands unlatched the hook attached to his coat, freeing him. He straightened, half spinning while adjusting his infamous coat as he did so, and came to face her. His coat flipped behind him before falling to settle around his legs, never far behind his quick movements. She noted stupidly how his eyes had been latched onto her from the moment he came crashing through the window, the peculiar shift between the shades blue and green making her stomach boil with something she couldn't even name. Still watching her, he reached for the dark coils of his hair and ruffled it, small remains of the glass flinging free.

Molly forgot to breathe. She was paralysed from simply looking at him, a dark angel she had watched for many years but had never really _seen. _He had a determination in his eyes that burned into her like molten lava despite the iciness of his irises, and the set of his strong jaw made her heart flip in ways that she thought she should be worried. She felt that she should have been afraid, what with his darkness and his intimidating height, yet she felt only relief for his safety. She expected him to leave her without a word, but oh how wrong she was.

Things slowed down to the point she thought she was trapped in a blissful dream. He came towards her, raising his hands towards her face. She noted the delicateness of his fingers, as curious as when he analysed a piece of evidence, the care held within unmistakably controlled. She watched, unable to move, as he came to straddle her face in his unbelievably large, skilled hands, the touch cold yet igniting every nerve in her body like a raging fever. His eyes were glass, sheeted with nothing but want and dominance, seeing right into her soul. She opened her mouth, about so say God knows what, when suddenly she felt his body shift as he lined himself directly against her. Any form of word died when he lowered his face, and suddenly everything around her snapped into something beyond her wildest dreams.

He kissed her. His mouth came down on hers in a firm, hot, controlled manner, sealing her lips with his and withholding any form of sound escaping her. She felt him through the haze as he melded towards her, sinking against her mouth during his assault. She revelled in the taste of him, both sour and sweet, as well as scent. He smelt of something indescribable, something that could only be defined as Sherlock, and it made her mouth water. He pushed against her lips, urgent, yet he did not add movement to the kiss. He didn't need to. The desperation and want was all there, solid against her mouth, warm and cold and oh so _searing_.

Molly reached to touch Sherlock's neck, feeling the smoothness of his skin and the tension that resided there. She felt the jump in his jaw upon the contact, and even heard the slight sound of a moan in his throat, rumbling lusciously through her own body. Her fingers inched up, cupping his face, holding him against her mouth just a little longer. He shuddered, as if something had clicked in his mind, and ever so slightly his lips worked against hers in a slow, graceful movement. She gasped, falling into him, needing him, and then she felt the sudden push against her. His lips departed from hers swiftly, and Molly stumbled as Sherlock released her. Molly gawped, dazed, and Sherlock only smirked and winked while the fingers of his right hand slid free from her cheek. He held her eyes for a few more precious seconds, still smirking, before swivelling easily away and striding towards the doors.

He swung them open with purpose, and Molly gazed after him as the sensation of his kiss died away with blissful slowness. When he vanished, she felt her lips form into something of a grin, and a moment later found herself licking her lips and gathering the remainder of his flavour. Sweet like sugar, sour like lemons.

Molly Hooper was sure that _that _was just an appetizer of what Sherlock Holmes had to offer, and she suddenly felt famished with desire, forcing her to grin idiotically at the glass coated ground below her. For once, she no longer cared about her stupidity, only her hunger for a very, very dark angel.

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**Was anyone else famished after ****_that _****stunt Mr Cumberbatch pulled?**


	2. Endearing Light

**A counterpart to the previous one, because I'm fairly sure it's only logical that I write it. Yes, this one is indeed in the POV of our favourite consulting detective.**

**Enjoy my lovelies, I think you all deserve this after some lovely comments of the first :P**

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Sherlock Holmes was falling.

It wasn't a pleasurable experience; falling meant he was out of control of his own body. Sherlock was all about control, he needed it to keep himself steady. Without control he would quite surely go mad, thus ending up no better than Moriarty. The thought sent a horrid lurch in his stomach, and in anyone else it would have been from the fall. Not now. The clenching of his gut screamed at him just how much he loathed the idea of lacking the control Moriarty did. Yes, him and Moriarty were one of the same, but Sherlock would be damned if he was ever as insane as that monster.

The ground came sailing towards him in a blur, and Sherlock's odd human instinct howled at him to scream, or fight, or both. He felt that he had to do something in aid of stopping his descent, and he struggled to collect the realisation that the operation was perfectly safe. Sure enough, he felt the strain of his body as the cord reached its end, knocking the breath out of him. He felt the trembling in the cord through his coat, and distantly he cursed the possibility of his precious coat suffering damage in the retched pull. His stomach clenched with the force of his sudden halt, his arms reaching down until his fingers almost kissed the concrete. He swallowed, drew in a breath, and then went flying up the way he'd come.

Humiliatingly, he felt a violent jolt of panic, making his body thrash in the air. In the moments it took him to feel the vast rise and the threat of gravity pulling him once again, Sherlock swivelled in mid air. He focused on the white figure in one of the windows of St. Barts, the figure that made all of this possible in the first place. Angling his feet, he aimed for the only source of light he could glimpse through this greying world, the most pure source of light he would ever glimpse. Swinging, his feet slammed against the glass, shattering it and making him deaf with the deadly symphony it created. As soon as the shower of glass subsided just enough, he latched his eyes onto the only thing that had gotten him this far.

Hazel. Huge, dazed, terribly beautiful hazel eyes gawped at him like a hawk, and they were hardly the eyes that one could look away from easily. Over the years Sherlock had found them endearing, but had never really acknowledged the endearment of them until now. It had never seemed logical before. Now, though, they were all he could see, and he couldn't hold back his smugness upon knowing that he was the reason for the wonder that shone in those wondrous eyes. So, in addition, he held his gaze on them as he freed himself from his harness, his natural speed and efficiency once again working in his benefit.

He felt himself spring free and spun, shaking any rouge shards of glass free from his beloved coat. Molly Hooper remained frozen in her place, staring at him, her mouth agape. He guessed that she was trying to work up some kind of rational response to his sudden arrival, which amused him more than it should have. Molly had never been good with words, and he was quite sure he had knocked all the rational sense out of her entirely. As time frozen around him, he took her in with his eyes, yet somehow no words presented themselves to him. Molly didn't need to be deduced because she was an open book and always had been. Timid, fragile, wonderfully pure and simple, she offered him something that no one else could; _silence. _No words, no calculations, just Molly.

He had every intention of just leaving, for time was desperate to challenge him. However he couldn't just _go, _not when she just stood there like that, gaping like a kitten eying up a toy mouse. Ruffling his hair free of glass, and of course out of the quick decision to do what he was about to do, he came towards her with all the determination he possessed. His heart remained calm, but he could practically hear the pounding of hers. Her eyes dilated, almost becoming consumed in black, which only urged Sherlock to do what he intended. He reached for her, delicate, treating her like a specimen of great potential and wonder, because that is indeed what Molly Hooper was. His hands grabbed her face, holding her in place, controlling the situation in a way that he knew Molly would never protest against. He angled himself against her, instinct carrying him on, and finally stared at her mouth for the briefest of seconds.

Then he went in for the kill, and kissed Molly in a way he was sure she'd never been kissed. The moment his mouth touched hers, he found himself folding in on himself, every muscle coiling before relaxing as he melted against her. It was almost a painful sensation, to feel so at home, to experience such relaxation like this. The only other time he felt this stress-free was in the few hours after solving a case, where he would usually unwind with John by the fire in 221B. He didn't have that anymore, though, so he took the next best thing and relished in it.

She tasted wonderful, like strawberries, and that was without the movement of his lips. A new type of tension built up, his head spinning, his body awakening with an electrifying jolt. He pushed against her warm lips urgently, sinking, falling, desperate to fight off the need to take this further. He so badly wanted to kiss her further, to delve against her lips in a need to satisfy his curiosity. His fingers clenched ever so slightly against her hair, fighting an inner battle to resist touching her elsewhere, like her neck, her shoulders, the small of her back. Her scent was intoxicating, a mix of her own sweet aroma and her perfume, but that wasn't what nearly finished him.

Her fingers touched his neck, hot on his skin, and the curiosity in her fingertips almost drove him mad. A muscle in his jaw jumped and he succumbed to a low moan, and in any other circumstance he would have cursed himself for being weak. Not now. Her fingers trailed up, cradling his face, adding pressure to keep him against her. Sherlock, a naturally steady, confident man, shuddered beneath her hands ever so slightly. Who would have thought that such a simple creature like Molly could make a complicated man like Sherlock come undone as easily, just by a touch? He didn't even care.

Time suddenly burst behind his closed lids, and Sherlock could have sworn bloody murder with frustration. However, he came to one last decision, one that would stay with him and with Molly until the last of their days. He opened his mouth on hers, pushing slightly as he folded his lips around her own, her flavour exploding on his tongue like popping candy. Molly gasped hotly into his mouth, making his eyes snap open with bliss and surprise. She fell into him, her hands gripping his face desperately, and it took all Sherlock had to push her none-too-gently away. Had he pushed her gently, he would have only wanted to go back to her for more which he simply couldn't do.

Sherlock hated being deprived of what he wanted.

Molly stumbled awkwardly, eyes snapping open to stare at him. Sherlock smirked devilishly, winking as his fingers grazed her cheek. He held her eyes for just a few moments longer, memorising her features; strong jaw, small lips that in that moment were somewhat swollen, large eyes that saw more than they let on, auburn hair pulled back neatly from her face. He drank her in, needing that image, locking it away in his mind so that he could later come back to it for comfort along with the others, such as John. She was the final ingredient to ignite his determination.

Finally he spun away from her, striding away from the room and slamming open the doors, walking away with all the purpose he had. With a grin he lowered his face, casting it in shadow, and marvelled in the fact that once he came home again, he was sure Molly Hooper would be waiting.

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**This scene will never get old, I can tell you all that much!**


End file.
